Perspectives
by this-zombie-life
Summary: A series of one-shots, revolving around the Companions the Warden gathers over the adventure. Each story focuses on one character. Spoilers abound! Rated M for potential smut later on. Chapter 3 is up!
1. Introduction

Alright...my impression of _Dragon Age: Origins_ can be summed up in one word: wow. Bioware marks a return to high fantasy with an incredible collaboration of talent. Everything – literally everything – is top notch. The environments are crafted to tell stories before any narrative is encountered. Instead of glimmering buildings and inns, the player finds themselves in rough-built villages and hastily laid out campsites throughout the back country of a nation that has just found its independence. The backstory and history is fantastic and in-depth – the story of the in-game church, for instance, stands out as a remarkable commentary on real world religion – though it isn't shoved in the player's face at every turn like so many RPGs seem self-required to do. (_Lost Odyssey_, I'm looking at you. Don't try to hide it.)

The biggest thing for me, though, are the characters. Party members don't blindly follow your decisions, nor do they just shout opinions at every disagreement. They have loyalty scales of their own, and their own lives outside of the player's story. When combined with the excellent voice acting that BioWare games have become known for, the party members cease being placeholders and become something much more; they become individuals, as potentially corny as that sounds. The characters in _DA:O_ easily gain a place next to your favorite characters from literature, film, and television.

The player can get nine companions in the game, though most will only gain eight – DLC is required for the ninth, and as such I won't be including Shale. (Poor little golem.) I also probably won't be including the "Secret Companion," although I might be persuaded to.

As struck as I was, I had to write something...and this is it. "Perspectives" is a series of shorts, each revolving around one party member. Also, as much as I hate bald summery, I figure it's easiest to describe my Warden here than hope such details are readily apparent later on. Therefore:

The last son of a murdered noble household, Sebastian Cousland is a rogue with specializations in assassin and duelist training. He wields a longbow for distance fighting, and duel-wields a longsword and dagger for those _hello-you're-dead_ close encounters. Equally irreverent and compassionate, he was instilled with a deep sense of morality by his parents and frequently snuck out of the palace with his older brother to mingle at the local taverns. As a quirk, he doesn't sleep in a tent when on his own, but rather builds shelters which can easily be torn down when the party moves on. (When it was discovered he lacked any desire for training as a pure warrior, his father pushed survival courses taught by the roughest ex-soldiers in Ferelden – men, elves, and dwarves – and the impact of them has never lessened.)

Anyway...now that my geek badge is official, time to start!


	2. Chapter 1: A Most Faithful Friend

Disclaimer:

~ Consider this a spoiler warning. They will come up through the whole story.

~ I don't own anything, aside from my own character. Don't sue me, you won't get much. I'm open to being hired, though. Just sayin'.

* * *

Part One: A Most Faithful Friend

"You see, mi'Lord, the steed is strong. It will be a fine gift for your youngest son, Sebastion."

Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, ran a hand through greying hair and looked the horse over again – corded muscle strained against the sleek black of its coat, and a wild superiority shone in the gaze it directed at him. "Perhaps, perhaps. Leave me for now, will you? I'll make a decision and meet you out front."

The man accompanying him nodded. "Of course, mi'Lord. I'll be outside, take your time." His heavy footsteps quickly faded from earshot, leaving Bryce alone with his thoughts.

He shook his head. _There was a time, not long ago, that I never believed I would live to have children – the Battle of White River...and now I have two sons. Maker help me._

Bryce knew he was at a loss. His eldest, Fergus, was his spitting image. His rich brown hair was the same as Bryce's had been when he was young, and sported the permanent scruff he had before the grey had started to take over the brown. He excelled with sword and shield, was quick with a laugh and a clap on the black, and was prone to rather...grandiose gestures when it came to his patriotism – a man others would follow. When Fergus had turned eighteen, finding a gift for his firstborn gift had been simple – a war steed, one that would enable him to help his father lead the armies of the King. _A fine animal_, Bryce thought. _A full seventeen hands, slightly mad as all good war horses should be, and totally dependable._ Fergus had leaped into the saddle, and he had soon proved himself the image of his father again.

Bryce ran a hand down the flank of the animal in front of him, feeling the power stored in the quivering muscle under his fingers. A slight smile touched his lips. His second son, Sebastion, was different from him in almost every single way that Fergus was himself made over. Despite sporting several strong Cousland traits – the strong jaw, for instance – Sebastion sported his mother's raven hair and green eyes instead of Bryce's own red-brown. Instead of his older brother's close-cropped hair and stubble, Sebastion had long hair and a close-cut beard that ran down from his sideburns and outlined his jaw. Where Fergus sported his strength of character on his shoulders boldly, Sebastion's was buried under a wall of sarcasm and self-depreciation. Where Fergus stumbled over words when talking to women, Sebastion was already forming a reputation among the female servants. Bryce chuckled to himself. _Thank the Maker his mother hasn't found out about that yet. I have no idea how she'd handle it._

The shining incident that had revealed to him just how different his sons were, and yet how close they were bonded, had occurred two years ago to the day. There had been rumors of a slaver kidnaping Elves from the city's Alienage and selling them on the Orlesian slave market, and despite his best efforts the Teyrn had been unable to find the conspirators in order to bring them to justice. At the dinner table, Fergus had leapt to his feet and proclaimed that his birthday gift to his younger brother would be ridding the city of the slavers. He took a patrol of guards and left the castle immediately. Bryce had turned to apologize to Sebastion, but his youngest was no longer in his seat. He remembered Eleanor's aggravated shouts about having "stupidly heroic sons" that "ruined every family event," but the memory that would never leave him was when he had caught up with Fergus in the city. Through blunt though well-meaning force and pressure on known criminals, Fergus had finally located the headquarters for the slavers. Bryce watched Fergus kick the door down...only to find the slavers already tied up, the male Elves standing watch over them, and the female Elves swooning over a grinning Sebastion.

After being pressured, his youngest had revealed that he had disguised himself and simply waited in a tavern till eavesdropping revealed a highly coded and Orlesian-accented conversation. He had followed them in the shadows, and simply picked the locked back door and freed the slaves. Bryce remembered the two brothers hugging tightly, then talking to every single Elf and offering the full force of the Cousland family in order to right the horrible wrongs they had incured. _I knew then that the two of them shared a bond that belied any difference of style or personality._

Suddenly, Bryce had a flash of inspiration. He realized he had been looking in entirely the wrong place, and rushed out to the front of the stable. He approached the livery's owner, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Daniel, but I won't be purchasing any horses today. I was wondering, though, if you'd be able to put me in contact with the Formari..."

***

The month passed quickly, and soon the castle was bustling with guests and servants. Bryce was happy. His son's belated birthday dinner went off with nary a hitch, outside of a series of more and more flirtatous looks between Sebastion and the daughter of a neighboring Arl. He stood from his place at the head of the table, clinking his fork on his ale mug until the various conversations had shrunk to a murmur.

Bryce cleared his throat."Everyone, everyone...thank you. I wanted to thank everyone for coming, it means the world to myself, to Eleanor, and our children. Today my son Sebastion turns eighteen, and as is our custom, he will receive a gift that welcomes him into manhood." Bryce motioned towards his son, and after the requisite struggle Sebastion left his seat and stood at his father's side.

The Teyrn smiled at his son, wrapping an arm around him, and motioned towards the back of the room. "I was quite stymied as to what to get you, son. The cost of providing chastity belts to every family in Highever with daughters of an eligible age was prohibitive."

The table erupted in laughter, and Bryce was rewarded with seeing a rare blush spread over his son's features. He waved the laugher down, then continued. "Sorry, Sebastion...couldn't help myself." His son shrugged, and Bryce noticed the young noblewoman winking directly at Sebastion. He grinned, and hugged his son tighter. "Anyway, the time will soon come when Fergus will no longer be able to function as your constant coconspirator. I dare say I've found a replacement."

From the back of the room, a young man clad in mage robes walked through the door. He was carrying a small bundle, wrapped in cloth. Bryce guided his son over, and the rest of the guests slowly followed them away from the table. The young visitor, a Tranquil, smiled softly and spoke without inflection. "My young Lord, you're about to-"

Sebastion raised a hand, interrupting him. "I'm sorry to interupt, but my name is Sebastion. Not 'mi'Lord,' or any other title. Such distinction isn't needed, friend." Bryce heard the murmurs of his guests behind him, but didn't care. _You make me proud, son._

The Tranquil nodded, and continued. "Sebastion, you're about to receive a very special gift. When I remove the blanket, please lock eyes. You'll know when to look away."

Before anyone could speak, the man pulled the blanket back to reveal a young Mabari puppy. The puppy was sandy brown, the muzzle a darker shade, and clearly very young. Bryce knew it was only six weeks old, but it was already the size of many full-grown pets that nobles in other nations preferred. The puppy yawned, then slowly opened his eyes. It locked eyes with Sebastion, and suddenly a chill rushed through the room. The muted discussion died in throats of speakers, and a frisson of energy sparked inside Bryce. He had been told all about imprinting, of course – the Formari were nothing if not complete with any who inquired into purchasing one of their hounds – but he would never have expected the moment to be so powerful.

The puppy wriggled in the hands of the Tranquil, until he let the puppy down onto the floor. It slowly padded to Sebastion, who extended a hand slowly. The Mabari sniffed the outstretched fingers, then licked them and barked happily.

"Now, the Mabari's name. Look him in the eye, and state it" the Tranquil whispered.

Sebastion lowered his head, looking directly into the hound's own. "Scout. Your name is Scout."

The puppy, never breaking eye contact, reached up and licked his nose.

The tension in the room erupted into applause and laugher, and Bryce let out the breath that he had unconsciously been holding. He felt a hand clap his shoulder, and Rendon Howe's low voice. "A fine gift, my old friend. He'll be the envy of the other nobles."

Bryce returned the gesture, draping one arm over his old friend's shoulders. "I don't think he cares much, Rendon."

Bryce turned to find Eleanor, and Rendon kneeled, extending a hand to the puppy. "Now, there's a good do-"

Bryce heard a yelp, and turned back. Rendon was holding his hand, while rivulets of blood dripped down his fingers and splattered on the floor. "The...the beast attacked me!"

Bryce laughed. "He is a war hound, old friend. Come, let's get you patched up."

Bryce and Rendon walked away from the crowd, and while none noticed, the Mabari's eyes never left them until they left the room.

*** Several Years Later ***

The campfire crackled, and a plume of sparks flew into the night sky only to dissipate like seeds from a flower in fall. Alistair, Grey Warden, sat on a piece of firewood, cleaning and polishing his shield from a long day of combat. Across from him, the newest Grey Warden was pouring over the age-old contracts between the various races and the Wardens.

"So, Sebastion...is it true, what they say about Mabari hounds?"

Sebastion looked up. "Say what?"

Alistair sighed. "Look, I'm used to being ignored by our resident angry witch. Being ignored by you too might just hurt my masculine feelings."

The two of them shared a look for a minute, and then both broke down laughing. Both composed themselves, and Alistair caught Sebastion looking around the camp. "What? What's wrong?"

Sebastion shrugged. "Just wondering where Scout went...ah, there he is."

Alistair turned to look in the same direction Sebastion was. "Where?"

"Pestering Morrigan."

"Ah."

Suddenly, the two of them heard Morrigan let out an exasperated sigh. "Another? I just gave you one, fool dog."

Alistair opened his mouth, but Sebastion smiled and raised a hand to quiet him. The two men heard the Mabari whine once, twice.

"Perhaps you should go and hunt something, then. For a warrior beast you are remarkably over-dependent."

The hound let loose a loud, happy bark.

The two companions had to strain to hear Morrigan's response. "Oh, very well. But tell no one, or I'll change you into one of those frilly Orlesian things."

The camp went quiet, aside from the crackling of fires. Scout trotted over, and after flopping himself on the ground rested his head on Sebastion's lap. Sebastion smiled, and scratched him behind the ears. "And yes, to the question you were going to ask. They are as intelligent as the legends, they do understand speech, and they imprint on one master for life."

Alistair nodded. "So what...you got Scout as a gift? Maybe he was the runt."

Scout raised his head and barked sharply.

Alistair raised his handed defensively. "Hey now, we're OK. I just meant...you were begging for treats from _Ms._ _I'll-kill-you-and-eat-your-soul_. Not the smartest move in my book."

Scout barked again, then yawned and lowered his head back onto Sebastion's thigh.

"I wouldn't worry, Alistair," Sebastion said. "He's always been an excellent judge of character."

Alistair noticed a dark cloud crossing his friend's face as he said that. He was about to remark on it, when Scout raised his head and licked Sebastion right on the nose. The men laughed, and the Mabari kept his place by his master's side throughout the night.

The next day found him there as well, making Darkspawn and wild creature alike tremble in fear. The Mabari hound feared nothing at his master's side – wild bear or towering ogre, shambling undead or blood-magic wielding maleficar – they would all meet the same end. As Sebastion threw himself against impossible odds again and again in desperate attempts to vent his anger and grief, in the back of his mind he never worried. In the following months, whenever he was able to spare a glance during battle at the most faithful friend he had ever known, his father's words would ring unbidden in his memory:

"_...the time will soon come when Fergus will no longer be able to function as your constant coconspirator. I dare say I've found a replacement."_

A touch of a smile would cross his lips. _Yes, Father, I think you did_.


	3. Chapter 2: All Things Find Their Place

Disclaimer:

~ Consider this a spoiler warning. They will come up through the whole story.

~ I don't own anything, aside from my own character. Don't sue me, you won't get much. I'm open to being hired, though. Just sayin'.

* * *

Part Two: All Things Find Their Place, Given Time

The cage was infernally frustrating. The bars were hot during the day, but retained none of said heat at night. They were too far apart to function as a comfortable backrest, and too close together to allow his hand to pass between them. _This must be what our mages feel like_, Sten thought. They, inevitably, were in the way of whatever he wanted to see...not that there was much to see in this town. Lothering, the humans called it. If there hadn't been a Chantry and an inn, it would have been tents in the wilderness instead of a town.

The size of the cage was another matter. For a human or elf, which Sten assumed the cage had been made for, it was roomy enough – at least, there would have been room to sit. For the qunari, however, it was akin to shoving of the Ferelden's Mabari hounds into a sparrow's nest. He could barely turn without jamming his shoulders into the cage. He supposed he should be grateful that he could stand, as the cage had a rounded dome roof instead of a flat one. Small favors, after all.

There had been a small white stone on the floor of the cage when the humans had put him inside, and Sten had grabbed it before the humans had seen it. It was too small, too crumbly to be used as a weapon; indeed, he had accidently broken it just by holding it. Instead, Sten had started using it to mark days on the floor of the cage. He had gotten up to seventeen before the first refugee appeared. They arrived alone, or in families. All were breathless, frightened, and carrying overstuffed packs filled with things no doubt "too important" to leave behind. The town's original inhabitants were welcoming at first, but soon grew contemptuous and angry. They forced the refugees into one small area of the town, and tensions rose. Before long, the Chantry's templars were forced to stand guard in order to stamp out a potential riot.

Sten attempted to start conversations with the ones who passed his cage, but none replied. They seemed content to pretend he wasn't there, which was both infuriating and informative. Sten overhead several words that stood out, key among them "darkspawn" and "Ostegar." He even heard a child asking about a "Blight," though the child's parents quickly quieted him.

For the first time since he had been caged, Sten felt some measure of hope. _Even though I cannot return home, I may find some measure of honor in completing my task regardless._ He patiently waited for the child to pass by again, and attempted a conversation. To his great surprise, the child stopped and talked. Sten quickly learned of the battles against the darkspawn to the south, and while the boy steadfastly refused that a Blight was occurring "'cause my Daddy says there can't be another Blight, since them Grey Wardens killed so many," Sten was able to gather a great deal more intelligence than his whole squad had previous to their disastrous battle with the darkspawn. The young boy even asked Sten if he had eaten, and when he had said no, the boy had left to find him food. _Perhaps they are not all unenlightened,_ Sten thought, but his newfound optimism didn't last long. An hour passed. Two. The third passed, and still the boy had not yet returned.

The boy did not return until dark. "I'm sorry Mister, but my Ma got real upset with me talkin' to you. She made me promise not to talk to you no more, but I figure that she only means harmful talk, and helpin' someone ain't harmful, so I snuck out after she and Daddy went to sleep."

Sten hadn't even begun to formulate a response when the boy shoved a brown bag through the cage bars. "Here, I bought these from a guy in the tavern. I snuck one, but there are still ten or eleven left. Hope you like them...I mean, who doesn't like cookies?" With that question, the boy scampered off.

Sten shrugged his sore muscles, and opened the bag. He reached inside, and took out one of the things the boy had brought him. He brought it to his face and smelled it. It looked like bread, but it was more crumbly than any bread he had tasted before. There were small colored pieces on the top of it which seemed to serve no purpose. He broke a piece off of one, braced himself, and put the piece in his mouth. He chewed once, twice, and suddenly a cataclysm of flavor assaulted his mind. It was sweet, incredibly so, and the small colored bits were individual flavors! The qunari let his eyes drift shut and submitted himself to the experience. He would have called the experience a meditative one, but it was too varied, too intense. Intellectually, he knew he should ration them. After all, he had no idea how long he would stay in the cage. _Just one more_, Sten thought. _These are fantastic inventions..._

*** A Month Later ***

Sten's hard features were lit by the crackling fire. He had just finished removing his armor for the evening, and sat on one of the cut logs that the dwarven merchant had provided as chairs. He rolled his neck in a long circle, and stretched his legs. The party was heading south towards the Brecilian Forest, where a large number of Dalish Elves had been reported. The two Wardens believed that it would be the best bet for finding a group large enough to honor their treaty.

He closed his eyes, and began to meditate. _First step, the removal of physical distractions_. Sten began at his feet and slowly moved his focus upwards. He stopped paying attention to the small fly on his leg, the belching of the drunken dwarf beside his tent, and the muttering of the army representatives. The crackling of the fire faded from his ears. The smooth ring of the wetstone Alistair was using to sharpen his blade dissipated into the night sky._ Second, the removal of stray thoughts_. Sten breathed deeply. Once, twice. He put aside the joking flirtations of the dark-haired mage, discarded the suspicious glances from the Antivan elf. He focused till his mind was as clear as the small section at the base of the fire, where there were only red-hot coals and nothing else to contemplate.

Sten breathed again. "_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun_."

He breathed again, then heard rustling behind him. _Vashadan, I will never focus._

"Excuse me, Sten? May I have a moment?"

Sten raised his head, and saw Sebastion standing there. He nodded, and stood to meet the Grey Warden. "What do you need?"

The Warden shrugged, and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't need anything, actually. I found something you might be interested in, though."

Sten raised an eyebrow in response. The young human smiled, and waved to the dwarven merchant. "Bodahn?"

The dwarf trotted over, carrying a large package. It was crudely wrapped in brown paper, and tied with white string. The merchant looked frightened beyond any comprehension, but he sat the package on the ground and rushed back to his cart. Sebastion motioned to the package, the gesture saying _it's yours, take it_, and Sten warily picked it up.

"I know you've been somewhat mum about yourself, Sten. You trusted me enough to follow me, though, and I appreciate the fact that you opened up about your mission. This took me a while...worth it, I think."

The qunari lifted the package and examined it. It was long, but not shaped like a painting or other gift that the human had already presented to him. He gently tore the paper off. His mouth dropped open as he saw the handle of a sword appear. Sten looked up at the human, who simply offered a friendly smile in response. The remaining paper flew off, and to Sten's shock his sword _Asala_ stood in his hands once more. "How...?"

Sebastion bent over, picking up the discarded paper as he answered. "I went to the site of the battle, but there wasn't much left. We've been busy, so I asked Bodahn to keep an ear to the ground. He had to go through a few merchants, and I had to...persuade a very surly dwarf back in Redcliffe, but I found it."

Sten barely heard him. He held the bastard sword high, watching as the firelight and starlight reflected along the blade. _I thought you lost. At last, completion._ "I...I would thank you, if I knew how."

Sebastion clapped his hand on the qunari's massive shoulder. "No thanks are needed, friend." He turned to leave, but stopped. "If you don't mind me asking, what were you reciting?"

Sten slid the sword into it's sheath along his back. "It is a proverb from the Qun. In the common tongue, it means 'Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.'"

The human nodded. "I will ponder that. If the sea is changeless, though...what about deserts? Are they not former oceans?" Sebastion smiled, and walked away.

Sten indeed pondered that very thought, as he held his sword in his hand._ Perhaps not all struggle is an illusion, _he thought. _Perhaps we simply struggle to find our way to the moments that define us. _He glanced back at the Warden, now talking to the lyrium-addled dwarf. _Thank you, kadan._

He came to respect the Warden as a true warrior, and that was why he felt no slight when not chosen to chase the Archdemon when the Blight attacked Denerim. Sebastion had clapped him on the shoulder again, and asked him to lead the remaining troops in holding the gate against Darkspawn reinforcements. Sten had agreed, and quickly directed the soldiers into constructing makeshift barricades. As he shouted orders and battle cries, the qunari finally arrived at an understanding he had long sought – all things did find their proper place, given time. _Asala_ sung, its voice joining with the elf's twin daggers and the bard's bowstring. _All those struggles guided me here. Good luck, kadan._ Sten smiled to himself, and waged back into the millwheel of war.


	4. Chapter 3: That Which Sustains Us

Disclaimer:

~ Consider this a spoiler warning. They will come up.

~ I don't own anything, aside from my own character. Don't sue me, you won't get much. I'm open to being hired, though. Just sayin'.

*************

Part Three: That Which Sustains Us

This morning, like every other morning in Lothering, the dawn crept over the trees and slowly illuminated a town caught in between summer's heat and night's brisk chill. The light danced over the ruins of the Imperial Highway and skipped from roof to roof, finally settling on the town's Chantry and its small connected garden. A few stray dogs scampered between the tents set up by refugees, which were gradually appearing in a larger majority of the town. Although the flow had been only a trickle, the Chantry and Lothering's everyday residents were finding it harder and harder to manage the unrelenting influx of people from the areas surrounding Ostegar.

Brushing a loose strand of her honey-auburn hair behind her ear, Leliana guided the door shut with her hands and stepped into the garden. The soil, still brisk from the night before, crunched slightly under her feet. Her eyes drifted shut, and she breathed deeply. She preferred this area for her morning devotionals, instead of the main sanctuary. _The Maker reveals himself more in the everyday beauty of nature than in any building_, she thought, _but the smell of dog does grow tiresome._ She spread a small towel on the ground and knelt upon it. She folded her hands, took another slow breath, and let her gaze focus on the twisted rose bush at the end of the garden. Instead of being bare, though, a single miraculous bloom had blossomed overnight. The lush red petals glistened, the antidote to the seemingly dead bush around them. The shadow of a smile touched her lips, and she took a final cleansing breath.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," she whispered. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just."

Leliana couldn't stop her eyes from twitching towards the sound of the garden door opening again. Two Brothers stood in the doorway, staring at her. She smiled at them and, despite herself, was vaguely satisfied when both of them blushed and hurried back inside. _Pride is wrong, but it is nice to know I'm still decently attractive...even in these robes and these awful, awful shoes. Well, that or they were gossiping about my vision..._

She shook her head, and continued. "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written." Dew slid from petal to petal on the rose in front of her. "Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the grou–"

The door opened again, and this time two Sisters walked out. Leliana spared a glance and a smile, but received only cold looks in return. Returning her gaze to the rose, she began again. "Let the blade pass through the fles–"

"Can you believe she claims the Maker spoke to her?" one Sister whispered.

"I know! The arrogance, assuming herself the equal of Andraste!" the other hissed back.

Leliana bit down a retort. _Snipping at them would only legitimize them_, she reasoned. She cleared her throat, and began her recitation again. "Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacri–"

"Have you seen the way the Brothers look at her?" the first Sister spat out, barely containing her voice to a whisper.

"She flaunts herself in front of them, of course they would look! I think she took robes three sizes too small, the way the material hugs her backside..." the second replied.

_That's it!_ Leliana stood in a single smooth motion, and turned to face the two sisters. Both wore smirks on their pudgy faces. Leliana ran her eyes over the two of them and the table they sat at, her mind whirring. _The small spade that Brother Daniels uses would easily rend the first's throat before either of them would even realize what was going on, though snapping the second's neck would be a more effective means to quell the probable screams._ She took a breath, and forced her closed fist to relax. _I'm not that person anymore!_

She smiled at the two Sisters. "I was just finishing up. I hope you two have wonderful day. Maker bless you!" She bent, grabbed the towel, and walked back in the Chantry. She marched directly back to her quarters, and put the towel back on a shelf with several others.

"Excuse me, Sister Leliana. Are you alright?"

Leliana spun, an insult rising on her tongue. "You KNOW I'm not...oh!" The older woman standing in the doorway was the Revered Mother. "Your Reverence, I apologize."

The Mother smiled. "No need to, my dear. I know exactly what's got you so flustered."

"I know they shouldn't bother me," Leliana sighed. "It's just...I am what I am. Who are they to question how the Maker crafts His children?"

The Mother took Leliana by the hand, smiling at her. "My dear, 'tis best to just let them be. Why don't you go out in the town? See where you can have the most impact?"

Leliana nodded. "I think I will, your Reverence. Thank you."

The Revered Mother nodded, and left down the hallway. _I think I'll start in that tavern,_ Leliana thought. _I know it's full to bursting, perhaps I can be of some usage there._ She moved towards the door, but the glint of a dagger's blade caught her gaze. _Suppose it wouldn't hurt to be careful._ She picked it up, spun it in the air, and slid it into the back of her belt. _Now, off to where the Maker guides me._

***3 Months Later***

The half-mystical, half-solid _thunk!_ of the final stepping-stone forming itself echoed through the temple. Sebastion tested it with one foot, then put his weight on it fully. "I think we're good."

Morrigan snorted. "Great! Now we can all hold hands as we skip around in the snow to see the ashes of a mad-woman!" She and Alistair brushed past Sebastion quickly, bickering as always. He moved to follow them, but noticed Leliana dragging her feet. Sebastion whistled to Alistair and flashed a hand, signaling for a break. Alistair nodded in return, and the pair sat down in the hall.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the red-haired bard and flashed a warm smile. "C'mon, Leliana...pretty sure we're almost there. Hopefully no more raging brontos to dodge, and no more dragons to slay...at least for today."

Leliana offered a weak smile back in reply. "I hope not...the last one almost ruined my shoes!"

"Not your shoes! Here you are, already stuck in horrible Fereldan boots with nary a ribbon or bell, and now you have to deal with rampaging beasts and all manner of unsavory thugs? Maker help us!"

The two chuckled softly. Sebastion slowed his steps, and finally stopped altogether. Leliana saw her other companions further down the hallway. _Please don't ask me what's on my mind,_ she begged silently. _I can lie to everyone in the world __**but**__ you._

The raven-haired Warden stopped, just out of earshot of the odd couple down the ruined hall. He ran a hand through his hair, and slowly made eye contact with her. "So...bit for your thoughts? Or do I need a sovereign, instead?"

_Oh, damnation._ "It's nothing...just having a hard time taking this all in. We're actually going to see the ashes of the Prophetess Herself...makes my head spin, if I think about it too much." Leliana held his eye contact just long enough to sell the half-truth, then glanced away.

Sebastion raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. _Oh, just out with it! Even a Genlock would be able to see the wheels turning in your head!_ Leliana screamed to herself.

"That might be true," he said, his voice ginger, "but I don't think it's the whole truth. You know I care. I'm not going to judge you."

A bit of a smile touched one side of her mouth at that. Just over an hour ago, with Alistair and Sebastion off ransacking Maker-knows-what, Morrigan had confronted her about her relationship with Sebastion.. After listening to the statuesque woman demand she "desist and find her own," Leliana took no small amount of pride in informing the mage of the sibling-like relationship she shared with the Warden and watching the triumphant smirk melt away. _Seeing her confused was fantastic, though I hope it doesn't come back to hurt Sebastion._

The click! of snapping fingers drug her out of the memory. She blinked twice, and refocused her eyes on Sebastion. "Oh, I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Really, Leliana?" He grinned, then his face grew more serious. "I was saying...you're doubting your vision, aren't you? Because of what the Guardian said?"

Every ounce of pretense fell from her face. "Y-yes. It's just that – I mean, I'm a bard! I've killed people, before and now – I even enjoy it, at times! – Why in the world would the Maker Himself send a vision to me, when I can't even tell if I'm a good person or not?!"

Sebastion nodded slowly, letting her rambling thought process sink in. As she watched him think, a revelation hit her. Leliana had spent her life learning how to fool people, how to be just memorable enough to catch someone's eye but forgotten just as easily; somehow, without realizing it, she had stumbled into the company of the only man in Thedas who was able to utterly cut through her defenses while not taking advantage of her.

The Warden put his arm around her, and the pair turned to meet up with Alistair and Morrigan. "Look...as much as I poke at the Chantry," he said, "I believe in your vision."

"Of course you don– what?" Leliana looked up at him, her blue eyes meeting his green.

Sebastion shrugged. "When we were in Lothering, I-I was operating on instinct. My family had been slaughtered, my home burnt to the ground. Duncan and Cailan, along with all the other Grey Wardens and good soldiers, were dead at the hands of the darkspawn and Loghain's betrayal. Alistair and I were fumbling in the dark with no idea what to do, and out of nowhere you showed up. You kept me from killing Loghain's man in that tavern, and you helped me set out what we needed to do. You helped me find my focus again, and you let me be myself – no Warden, no noble, no smooth charming ladies' man. If the Maker wasn't responsible for sending you, I'd say He made a mistake."

Leliana's mouth hung open. She knew Sebastion cared, but she never imagined he would say anything like this.

He cleared his throat, and continued. "I was the youngest, never had any little brothers or sisters. As much as stopping the Blight means generally, you helped me see why it matters personally. You're a good person **because** you worry about doing evil, and if I had a little sister, I'd want her to be like you."

She reached out and touched his face with her hand. "I know you struggle too, with the drive for revenge you feel against Howe. You can try to hide it, but you can't fool everyone."

He nodded, his eyes closed. "I...there's just this swelling hate in me for him. I know it's wrong, I know my duties should come before my personal desires. I just can't help wanting the man dead."

Leliana nodded. "Once, on my travels to Fereldan, I met a man who claimed that everything – good, evil, and all that exists between – are simply aspects of the Maker. I find it comforting, at times, to realize even He must have felt these things in order to create them."

Sebastion opened his eyes, and offered an honest smile to her. He glanced ahead, and like a switch, straightened his back and fixed the expression on his face. _There he is, the Warden again, _she thought. _Like putting on and taking off different masks in a play._ He hugged her tight one last time, then let go. "Ready to see what the last test is?"

Leliana smiled in return. "After you, my heroic leader."

****

Laughing, the two joined Morrigan and Alistair. When they entered the final room and realized the wall of flame was a test of faith and not martial arms or wits, Leliana was the first to disrobe. She stepped into the flames without fear, though only one of her companions knew the real reason behind her faith. In Leliana's eyes, the question about the veracity of her vision was mute. She had found a brother from it, and the Maker always provided exactly what she needed.


End file.
